


The First Language and the Last

by didoandis



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst with a Happy Ending, Burns, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, I'm British so's my spelling, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Not Beta Read, Spells & Enchantments, Torture, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:29:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27913825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/didoandis/pseuds/didoandis
Summary: When Geralt gets close he sees that Jaskier’s eyes are shut. He’s breathing freely, just a little congested from the plaster that’s settled on his skin, making him look chill and dead. “Jaskier,” Geralt says, relieved, “wake up.” He reaches to touch the bard’s cheek.But his fingers fail to make contact. They slide away when they get near, as if his body is coated in oil, or grease; something slick that allows no purchase. He tries again, pressing harder, and the resistance hardens in turn, like glass beneath his fingers, smooth and cold.“Jaskier,” he says again, and winces at the desperation in his voice. He touched the emerald, and it did something to him. Mad Tymon was right: it contained power. A curse.Geralt takes a contract to investigate a haunted house, and ends up haunting it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 75
Kudos: 567





	The First Language and the Last

**Author's Note:**

> “Touch comes before sight, before speech. It is the first language and the last, and it always tells the truth.”
> 
> —Margaret Atwood, _The Blind Assassin_

The house doesn’t look like anything special. It’s an unusual size for a dwelling tucked so far away in the woods: three storeys, with what looks like two rooms either side of the entrance. The door is set in a deep porch, with stone steps leading up to it; the building itself is greying white-washed brick, with green shutters open at the windows and red terracotta tiles on the roof. A vine twists its way up the porch and on to the attics, its leaves yellowing now the summer has passed. The windows were made of glass, once, and remnants still cling to the empty frames. 

There was a path to the house, when it was new, but the forest has eaten it. Occasionally Geralt’s boots struck against stone on the way, but the road has been broken up and mostly lost. The younger trees and bushes of the woods have started to creep close to the building and a branch pokes out of one of the ground floor windows. It’s been many years since anyone lived here. Decades, maybe. 

Geralt hears Jaskier draw in breath and let it out with an exaggerated shudder. “Spooky, isn’t it. Definitely the kind of place where a ghost would reside.” 

“No such thing as ghosts,” Geralt says.

“No such—! Geralt, you fight ghosts _all the time_.” 

“I fight wraiths,” Geralt corrects him. He runs his hands down his chest and then his arms, almost unconsciously, checking that all the pieces of his armour are secure and in place. 

“What’s the difference? No, don’t tell me. We haven’t got all day.” 

“Hmmm,” Geralt says, a little disgruntled. Jaskier’s always on at him to give him details of his fights, but whenever Geralt tries to explain the subtle differences between the various classes of vampires, say, his eyes glaze over and he changes the subject. “Wraiths have a reason to stay. They’re too violent to stay hidden for long. The kind of ghosts in your songs, who mope about buildings for centuries – never seen one of those.” 

“Well,” Jaskier says, striding past close enough that his stupidly puffy sleeves brush against Geralt’s side, “maybe today’s your lucky day.” 

Geralt sighs and unsheathes his silver sword. He’s not sure he’d describe any of his encounters with the supernatural _lucky_.

It was an odd contract. The notice on the town board simply read: _wanted – a witcher. Fair pay for a day’s work_. There wasn’t much else going, though, so Geralt shrugged, pulled it down, and went to the tavern to ask after the man who’d posted it. That got him directions to a ‘Mad Tymon’ which didn’t seem like a good sign. But Jaskier was intrigued by that point, and ignoring an intrigued bard took more willpower than Geralt possessed. 

The directions took them to a small crooked shop on the edge of town, with leaded windows too grimy to see through and a wooden sign above the door that had _Tymon – Sundries_ burned into it. From the outside, the place smelt of sulphur and damp. 

“Sundries, Geralt!” Jaskier said, tapping his arm as if he might have missed it otherwise. “Was there ever a word so redolent of mystery?”

“Stinks of something,” Geralt said, because if he humoured this kind of thing he’d never get any peace, and entered the shop. 

Inside the place was murky, lit only by what little light came through the filthy glass and a couple of candles in sconces high on the walls. They had to be high up to avoid setting fire to the piles and piles and _piles_ of things on every surface: books, paintings, glassware, weapons, old bits of farm machinery, barrels and crates, what looked like a whole taxidermied badger. The dust made Geralt’s nose itch. 

“That is a _lot_ of sundries,” Jaskier said, wriggling round Geralt so he could delve into one of the tottering piles, pulling out two pieces of a broken flute and a cracked clay platter with great enthusiasm. 

“May I help you?” a voice asked, and then its owner appeared from behind a stack of wooden chairs. The man – mad Tymon, presumably, and now he’d seen his shop Geralt had fewer questions about the nickname – was stooped and balding, though perhaps not quite as old as his appearance suggested. He wore thick spectacles perched on the end of his nose, and his grey hair straggled down to his shoulders. 

“You have work for a witcher,” Geralt said. “Here I am.” 

“Oh!” Tymon exclaimed, rushing forward and causing a small landslide of paper and what looked like old dolls, “yes, how marvellous! Come into the light a little, let me look at you.” 

Geralt edged forward politely. Tymon snapped his fingers, Geralt’s medallion vibrated, and a glowing ball of light appeared above them. 

“Oooooh,” Jaskier said appreciatively, edging back through the stacks to get a better look. 

Geralt rolled his eyes. He’d be surprised if Tymon was a mage of Ban Ard – they usually took more care of their appearance, and frankly wouldn’t be seen dead in a backwater junk shop like this – but he’d clearly had some magical training along the way. “What’s the job?” he asked. 

“All business I see!” Tymon said, sounding a little aggrieved. Geralt supposed he didn’t get many visitors. Maybe he wanted to chat. “Well, let me tell you—” Then he spoke for a long time, so long Jaskier got bored and disappeared into the rear of the shop again. The upshot was this: 

He, Tymon, was a collector of rare and valuable antiquities (Geralt kept his face neutral) and magical items. Out in the forest was a house that had, supposedly, been built by a great sorceress, dead some years since. According to legend it was chock full of potions and magical contraptions that he, Tymon, would very much like to get his hands on, though he wasn’t entirely certain they actually existed. What he was sure _did_ exist was the necklace the sorceress used to wear, a great emerald on a golden chain. And he, Tymon, was quite convinced that, having been worn next to a sorceress’s skin for so many years, the emerald would contain some of her power; or at least that was the theory he wished to test. Unfortunately, none of the townsfolk nor, to be frank, himself, was willing to go exploring, lest the sorceress’s unrestful ghost attacked them. But if the witcher were willing to reclaim the emerald and anything else that looked interesting, there would be a hundred crowns in it for him. 

Geralt thought about explaining that there was no such thing as ghosts. Then he thought about the sorceresses he’d known, and figured that if anyone would linger after death to scare people who were trying to steal their possessions, it’d be a sorceress. Then he thought about the coin. He took the job. 

As he and Tymon were shaking on it, Jaskier emerged triumphant and dusty with a sheaf of musical scores which he bought for a few coppers. Then they went back to the inn. 

“What was in the rest of the shop?” Geralt asked as they walked. 

“More junk, mostly,” Jaskier said. “I caught a glimpse of a room beyond that looked a little clearer, like a workshop. Herbs and bottles and such and a table. Maybe he lives back there.” 

“Hmmm,” Geralt said, and Jaskier dug him in the side. He’d taken to doing that lately, as if it would encourage Geralt to speak more. Geralt elbowed him back, and when Jaskier returned from the other side of the road, asked, “Did he seem mad to you?” 

Jaskier shrugged. “Eh, I’ve seen madder. Maybe eccentric. Why?” 

“Not sure,” Geralt admitted. He stroked his medallion. Something was off, but he wasn’t sure what. He was intrigued now too. He supposed the sorceress’s house might have some answers, when they found it. 

They spent the evening in the tavern. Jaskier played while Geralt glared during the more dramatic bits, which they’d found a surprisingly good way to get coin. There was a bath waiting for them after they’d eaten and returned to their room; there’d been a choice between paying for two beds or one bed and a bath and they’d agreed on the latter almost wordlessly. 

They tossed for who got first go. Geralt won, sinking into the hot water with a deep sigh. Jaskier puttered about, fussing with his clothes as he stripped down to his braies, then sounding out the music he’d bought on his lute. They were melancholy songs but somehow peaceful; Geralt found himself drifting off. 

“Hey!” Jaskier said, swatting at his head. “It’s definitely my turn.” 

Geralt growled at him on general principles, but got out anyway. While Jaskier was splashing about – the bard treated bathing with the same drama he treated everything else – he checked his potions and oils and sharpened his sword, just in case. Then he got into the bed and waited for Jaskier to join him. 

“D’you remember,” Jaskier said, yawning, as he slid in under the covers, “how awkward this was when we first met? I suppose nearly a decade gets you accustomed to anything.” 

“Hmmm,” Geralt said. He’d grown up with other boys his age; modesty had worn off pretty early. He supposed Jaskier had found it awkward, but then Jaskier had still been a teenager himself back then. He’d smelt constantly of barely suppressed arousal, and used to twine himself around Geralt in the night, waking up blushing and hard and almost fleeing from the bed. Geralt had just waited it out, and now he didn’t do it anymore. 

Some days Geralt missed it: the warm weight of a body pressed against his, the unconscious trust Jaskier’s sleeping self seemed to have in him. But he wasn’t stupid; he knew it wasn’t personal. Jaskier lusted after everyone, touched everyone, making no distinction between man or woman or witcher. The bard spoke in every language available, that was all: music, words, touch, scent, as if there was so much going on inside him it had to spill out every way it could. Geralt occasionally suspected that Jaskier liked him so much because, as far as Jaskier was concerned, he was a silent receptacle for Jaskier to pour the neverending stream of his personality into. 

He generally didn’t think about why he liked Jaskier so much, though when he was feeling self-pitying he supposed it was simply because Jaskier treated him like he treated everybody, like Geralt was just another person. No one else had ever done that, apart from his fellow witchers, who didn’t count. 

“Guess I got used to you,” Geralt said. “Took a while.” 

“Rude,” Jaskier said, and bopped Geralt on the nose before turning over and falling asleep almost instantly. He always did that, like he just shut down, all that life and noise blown out like a candle. 

For a while, Geralt lay there, eyes fixed on the curve of Jaskier’s back. Something in him itched to see if it was as smooth as it looked, but that was a treacherous part, and he was well able to suppress it. Jaskier touched Geralt like he touched everybody. Geralt touched no one. That was the way it had always been, and he had no reason to think Jaskier wanted it any different. 

In the morning he roused Jaskier early, and they made their way into the woods. 

And now the house lies in front of them, keeping its counsel. Geralt moves a little faster so he can overtake Jaskier – ghost or no ghost, he’s going inside first – and Jaskier rolls his eyes but falls back. 

The door is barely clinging to its hinges. It creaks when Geralt pushes at it, and swings slowly open. The hall beyond is clear apart from cobwebs and dust, and some of the floorboards have been gnawed on; others are starting to warp from the damp. There are mice droppings everywhere. 

“If there is a ghost, it’s not very houseproud,” Jaskier comments, leaning up against Geralt on tiptoes to see over his shoulder. Geralt moves forward abruptly to make him stumble, and Jaskier pokes him in the neck. 

“Ow,” Geralt says mildly. 

“I don’t think you’re taking this contract very seriously, witcher.” 

“No such thing—”

“—as ghosts, yes, the refrain is getting a little repetitive. There could be other monsters, right? Maybe the sorceress did some dread magic! Maybe she isn’t dead!” 

Geralt sighs. Only Jaskier could be excited at the prospect of some new form of supernatural evil. He doesn’t know why he puts up with it, he really doesn’t. 

(This is a lie.)

He tries the door to the left – a kitchen – and to the right – a sitting room. The sitting room looks more promising. It’s equally damp and dusty, with mushrooms sprouting through a once-fine chaise longue, books rotten with moisture filling shelves by the cracked and empty window. But he can’t see any jewels, or anything that looks likely to contain them. He retreats to the hall and treads carefully upstairs, the steps groaning under his weight. 

“This is all remarkably dull so far,” Jaskier complains. “Oh, ghost! Show yourself!”

“Idiot,” Geralt says, but quietly. 

They find two rooms with very little personality (and poor taste, according to Jaskier, the drapes are quite out of style) and then a more richly furnished bedchamber. The bed is pushed into one corner, as decayed as the rest of the place; the quilt has become a bird’s nest, ripped apart and covered in crap. This is barely a job at all, Geralt thinks. There’s no sign of anything magical or dangerous. Tymon and the other townsfolk have built a grain of truth into a full legend. Perhaps there was an old lady who lived here, once. Old ladies often become terrifying as the years pass and people forget.

He’s about to take a last cursory pass and suggest they give it up as a bad job when his medallion, faintly but surely, vibrates against his armour. 

“Huh,” he says. 

“Oooh,” Jaskier says, turning from where he’s poking through a chest of linen with a wooden spoon he picked up somewhere. “Is that a magic tingle?”

Geralt doesn’t deign to answer that. He looks around more carefully, and catches a glimmer of gold in the darkest recess underneath the bed. He re-holsters his sword, takes hold of the bedpost and heaves. The bed drags unwillingly across the floor until there’s enough of a passage for him to edge in and reach down. The gold chain is caught on the edge of a broken board, the emerald just visible in the rafters below. 

“Do you see it?” Jaskier asks, crowding up behind him. “Is it there?” 

Geralt grunts, his fingers reaching. His gloves are too thick and clumsy, he fears losing it altogether. He pauses to take them off and tries again. His hand grasps at the chain and pulls. The emerald comes into the light. It’s beautiful – a flawless gem, its facets glinting. 

Not a fully wasted trip, then. He turns to show it to Jaskier, triumphant, and as he moves the chain swings, the emerald brushes the skin of his palm, a great crack of sound rends the air and the world explodes.

A shockwave pushes out from the jewel in his hand and sends him flying back, bed turning over, ceiling coming down. The room fills with dust and plaster and debris, catching in his throat; he chokes and coughs. The world is white. He blinks, tries to breathe, blinks again. A high whine builds in his ears; when he reaches shaking fingers to them, they come away bloody. When he tries to move, every muscle in his body aches as if he’s been fighting for hours. He stays still, hands clamped to his ears, eyes tight shut, no room in his head for anything but pain. 

Eventually it settles. Dust and plaster collect like snow, masking the broken boards and scattered cloth. The ringing sound fades. He starts to feel like himself again, not a ragged remnant of a man bruised and battered and tossed aside. He—

He hears coughing. 

He remembers. “ _Jaskier!_ ” he cries, and manages to push himself up enough to crawl forward. The floor feels strange under his hands. 

The bard is lying on his back by the door, arms outstretched. One bent leg is trapped under the chest he was poking through earlier; it’s turned over, its lid loose, and Geralt can only hope it didn’t land with crushing force. He smells blood, though, and pushes his slow body faster. 

When he gets close he sees that Jaskier’s eyes are shut, the blood-smell coming from under his head, though it’s a trickle rather than a flood. He’s breathing freely, just a little congested from the plaster that’s settled on his skin, making him look chill and dead. “Jaskier,” Geralt says, relieved, “wake up.” He reaches to touch the bard’s cheek. 

But his fingers fail to make contact. They slide away when they get close, as if his body is coated in oil, or grease; something slick that allows no purchase. He tries again, pressing harder, and the resistance hardens in turn, like glass beneath his fingers, smooth and cold. Geralt pulls away. He presses down on the floor, and feels only an absence of feeling, some kind of inert barrier between him and the world. 

“Jaskier,” he says again, and winces at the desperation in his voice. He touched the emerald, and it did something to him. Mad Tymon was right: it contained power. A curse. 

Jaskier coughs. His eyes open, and for a moment he simply stares upwards, dazed, his pupils overly large. A concussion, maybe. 

“Don’t move,” Geralt says. “Lie still.” 

There’s no reaction. Whatever is preventing him from connecting with the world is also stopping any sound getting through. Jaskier starts to sit up, unsteadily, one hand brushing against his surely aching head. “Geralt?” he asks, voice hoarse. 

“I’m here!” Geralt tells him, as if speaking louder will change anything. “I’m right here!” 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks again. He pushes at the chest on his leg, and it slides off easily. Below it, his breeches are torn and the skin beneath red and a little swollen, but it looks like a bad bruise, no worse. Geralt sighs in relief and a little eddy of dust whirls under his breath. He stares at it and huffs again, but this time nothing happens. 

By now Jaskier is shuffling forward, using the upturned bed as a crutch to lever himself to his feet. He looks around, his expression lost. “Geralt, where are you?” he murmurs, bending down to the floor again to check beneath the debris. When he straightens, he’s holding a gold chain in his hand. 

“No,” Geralt says, “don’t touch it—” And then pauses, because the emerald seems faded now, inert. There’s no gleam, no sparkle in its depths. Whatever it was conjured to do it’s done, leaving him caught out of time, out of place. 

Jaskier stares at it, closing his fist around it. He starts to limp out of the room, and not knowing what else to do, Geralt follows. His steps leave no trace, and he has to focus, hard, as he walks; the ground is like polished marble, slippery under his feet. On the stairs, he grabs at the rail, and is able to grasp the shape of it, but it too is enclosed in what feels like glass, keeping him distant. 

Downstairs, nothing has changed. The door still hangs open. He can hear mice scuttling beneath the floor. His senses are fine. He is just, somehow, not fully here, no longer fully _real_. 

Jaskier pauses by the door, one hand on the frame to support him. In the daylight he looks worse: there’s a bloody clump of hair on the back of his head and his fine clothes are covered in cobwebs and dust. But his expression is worse still, fearful and desolate. “Geralt!” he calls again, once back into the house, once outside into the forest. 

“I wouldn’t just leave,” Geralt says. “You know that.” But, looking at Jaskier’s face, he’s not sure the bard _does_ know that. And besides, the truth – that he simply vanished – is hardly better. 

“Right,” Jaskier says to himself. “Need to – need to get help. Find Geralt. C’mon, Julian, you can do this.” He takes a staggering step out of the house and pitches forward on to his knees, vomiting. 

Definitely a concussion, Geralt thinks, and though he can’t do anything, can’t help – gods, to be this helpless is _killing_ him – he moves anyway, compelled to at least be close. 

But as he steps forward the air in the doorway solidifies, like rubber wrapping itself around his body, embracing and then pushing away. He finds himself two paces back in the hallway, and when he rushes forward again the door seems to have been filled with solid glass and this time he rebounds more violently, falling on to his back. 

On the porch, Jaskier is still on his knees, still panting. And Geralt is trapped in the house. 

A great chill seizes him. All those rumours, of hauntings, of ghosts – what if it was _this_? What if the mage who lived here set curses for anyone who came after, leaving them imprisoned, unable to leave, unable to tell anyone they were still alive. Until – until what? Until they faded away? Or—

He casts his senses out as far as he can, hearing mice-hearts tripping away quickly in the walls and floors, bird-hearts a little less rapid on the roof. Jaskier’s, faster than usual; some other human’s in the woods nearby, steady and slow. No other presence, as far as he can tell. No other ghost. 

He’s all alone. Jaskier will leave, and maybe he’ll come back with others to help him search, but they won’t find anything. And they’ll go, and Geralt will be left alone. He told Jaskier he wanted that, once. And knew he was lying. But he didn’t, until this moment, realise quite how much. 

He hears Jaskier shift and then gasp. “Oh, thank the gods,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

Geralt looks up sharply to see Mad Tymon extend a hand and help Jaskier up. “I got curious,” he says. “I thought I’d come watch you work.” 

“Well your fucking emerald was cursed,” Jaskier spits. He pulls the jewel out of his pocket and thrusts it at Tymon, who takes it, turning it over and over in his hands. His expression, as far as Geralt can make out behind his glasses and at this distance, is an odd mixture of pleasure and concern. 

“What happened?” he asks. 

“Geralt found it,” Jaskier says, “and then everything fucking blew to pieces, and when I came round again he was gone.” 

I’m right here, Geralt thinks, miserable and furious. 

“The witcher’s gone?” Tymon asks sharply. “That can’t be right.” 

“I know!” Jaskier says. “He wouldn’t – he wouldn’t – but—” He steps back, throwing an arm out in a _see-for-yourself_ gesture. 

Tymon enters the house, and Jaskier comes after. Geralt steps in their way, but the universe seems to shift around him and the next thing he knows he’s at the side of the hall, and they’re halfway up the stairs. The curse won’t let him interact with anything, it seems. He follows them up the steps, slipping and sliding as he goes. 

When he reaches them again, Tymon is standing in the middle of the destroyed bedroom. He’s still holding the emerald, frowning. He slips it into a pocket of his robe, and bends to pick up a shattered length of floorboard, bending it between his hands. 

“Where was the gem?” he asks. 

“Over here, I think,” Jaskier says, pushing at the bed so he can get to the corner of the room where Geralt first saw the damn thing. “He bent down to get it, and when he stood up he touched it, and then— honestly, I don’t really remember what happened then. But he’d disappeared by the time I woke up.” 

“That can’t be,” Tymon mutters, almost to himself; Jaskier shrugs helplessly. “Show me?”

“Uh, sure,” Jaskier says, turning away and kneeling down. “It was about here—” 

Geralt screams his name, but it’s no use, of course it’s no use; Jaskier can’t hear him. All Geralt can do is watch as Tymon brings the broken board down hard on the back of the bard’s head, sending him sprawling unconscious on the floor. 

Tymon straightens. He drops the board and straightens his robe, wiping away the dust on his fingers with a look of distaste. “Now what?” he says, irritated. 

_Now what_ is Geralt tries to hit him, fists landing in what should have been debilitating blows to his gut and his face. They make no contact; Tymon simply turns to one side, frowning. Geralt’s breathing is heavy, his blood is up. He needs to stop, calm down, think this through. He won’t get out of this unless he starts to think. 

But it’s so hard when anger and frustration is raging through him, building when Tymon leans down to grab Jaskier’s legs by the ankles and starts to drag him from the room. 

It’s slow going. Tymon is not that old, but he’s certainly not hearty. He has to stop and rest every ten paces, and all the while Jaskier is lying face down, his face and chest scraping over every obstacle. “You fucker,” Geralt says, “I’m going to kill you, you shit,” because if he didn’t protest, it would be like he wasn’t there at all. 

Tymon stops again when he gets to the stairs, frowns, and shifts to roll Jaskier over and then lift him under the arms, pulling him backwards down the steps. Jaskier’s head lolls. There’s a scratch on his cheek but otherwise he seems miraculously unscathed. 

Geralt follows as they lurch down the staircase, then into the kitchen. There’s a trapdoor in one corner; Tymon sets Jaskier down to lift it, revealing more wooden steps vanishing into the darkness below. He moves his hand, and a ball of light appears above it, as it had in the shop, floating into the cellar to light the way as once again Tymon hauls Jaskier roughly where he wants him. 

Geralt follows. Useless, pathetic, weak, trapped – Geralt follows. 

The cellar’s floor is compact dirt, its earth walls held up with lath and plaster. There are hooks hanging from the ceiling, shelves nailed at the far end lined with clay pots and glass bottles. It must have been a pantry once, it already feels a couple of degrees cooler than the rest of the house. 

In the middle of the room sits a chair made of iron, rusting but solid all over. It looks heavy, unmoveable. Someone has soldered new strips of metal over the arms, across the back and the panel at the bottom. They shine a dull blue and when Geralt gets close his medallion vibrates. It’s dimeritium alloy, a fortune’s worth. 

Breathing heavily, Tymon manhandles Jaskier into the chair, clamping the shackles down over his arms, across his legs and chest. They slide into grooves and lock with keys, allowing them to be loosened or tightened at will. Geralt swallows. He’s seen things like this before, worse versions, covered with spikes all over. The metal straps are intended to torture, slowly, to tighten and crush bone. 

Jaskier hasn’t stirred. His breathing is shallow, his head slumped sideways. Geralt wants to lift it, rearrange it to prevent the terrible crick in his neck Jaskier will have upon waking. He wants to touch Jaskier, reassure himself he’s still present. But he can’t bear to feel nothing. 

Tymon steps away from the chair and pulls the emerald from his pocket again, holding it up to the magical light. “Useless thing,” he says, shaking it. “I was so _careful_.” He glares at Jaskier over his glasses. “Never mind, you’ll tell me what happened, won’t you? Yes. When you wake… The witcher can’t hide from me forever.” 

Oh. _Oh_. Oh gods he’s been so stupid. _Wanted – a witcher_. The enchanted gem, the chair with dimeritium shackles. This was all meant for him. Tymon aimed to ensnare a witcher, and has indeed managed to trap one, though not the way he intended. 

“Jaskier, I’m sorry,” he says, not that the bard could hear him even if he were awake.

“Now then,” Tymon says, patting his pockets fussily. He seems so harmless, this strange aging man with his sundries, his bits and bobs. What does he even want a witcher _for_? He pulls the emerald out from his robe, and kneels to lay it down, drawing a pentagram in the dirt around it with one finger. He mutters something under his breath, the magelight guttering as whatever magic he has is diverted. The jewel sparks briefly and then subsides back into its dull gleam. 

“That doesn’t make sense,” Tymon says. He clenches a fist, strikes the earth. “That doesn’t make any _sense_! It can’t have worked. He’s not _here_.” 

So, Geralt thinks, forcing his brain into gear: the emerald was a spell, a trap, to hold a witcher. It should have brought him down here, locked him into the chair at Tymon’s mercy. Instead it has imprisoned him in the house, here and not-here simultaneously. And in his place—

Jaskier’s breath starts to quicken. Geralt runs to crouch by his side. “Don’t wake up,” he hisses. “Please, Jaskier, not now!” 

“Geralt?” Jaskier says. But not in reaction; just in the usual way he does when he rouses after some peril or other and reaches out for the person he has always, stupidly, considered a hero. He blinks, shifts, and must feel the bonds holding him down for his breath speeds up a fraction and he winces. “Ah, hello again, Tymon. I realise this is something of a cliche, but I do feel like you’ve made a teensy mistake. Teeny weeny. No harm done if you’d just see your way clear to letting me go…” 

Not now, Geralt thinks. Jaskier’s off his game anyway, his eyes bleary from two knock-out blows in the same morning, but even if that wasn’t true, Tymon doesn’t seem like the type to be talked around. 

Tymon stands to loom over the chair. “Where’s the witcher?” he asks. 

“Pretty sure we’ve done this dance,” Jaskier retorts. “Emerald, explosion, witcher gone, remember? I don’t _know_ where he is.” 

“You’re lying,” Tymon says. “That’s not how the spell was meant to work.” 

“My dear sir,” Jaskier says, “I can’t speak to the quality of your spellcraft, I’m sure it’s immense, all I can do is tell you what I know. And what I know is that Geralt _left_.” 

He sounds so sure. Geralt feels ice in his lungs, a cold wind. 

“He’ll come back though,” Tymon says thoughtfully. Jaskier, as much as he is able, shrugs.

“Perhaps,” he says. “You’d have better luck back in town; Geralt might leave me behind, but he’d never abandon his horse.” 

This seems to shut Tymon up for a moment. “That’s not fair,” Geralt says into the silence. “Jaskier, you know that’s not true.” But Jaskier’s heartbeat is steady; if he doesn’t believe it, he’s doing a damn good job of pretending. 

“Don’t lie,” Tymon says, almost an echo. He moves his hand, and the magelight above his head shrinks into a tighter ball of light and swoops down to land on Jaskier’s chest, just below his left collarbone. 

The air fills with the smell of scorched cloth and charred flesh. Jaskier gasps, too breathless even to scream. Geralt cries out for him, voice ringing and going nowhere. The light pulls away. “Fuck,” Jaskier spits out. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

“There’s no need for this,” Tymon says mildly. “Just tell me what you know.” 

“I’ve _told_ you,” Jaskier says through gritted teeth. Tears have gathered in the corners of his eyes. “Why do you care so much, anyway?” 

“Don’t be foolish,” Tymon says. “You follow the witcher, you must be aware of the power he wields.” 

“Sure,” Jaskier nods, “but it’s his power, he’s the one who wields it, isn’t that the point?” He’s eyes are huge, his face white, but he’s wielding his own power, to keep madmen talking until Geralt can rescue him. Oh, how Geralt wishes he could. 

“Everyone is always so short-sighted,” Tymon sighs. “Imagine what knowledge lies contained in his blood, his muscle, his bone. How to be strong, how to heal, how to live forever. If I had him as a specimen, the study of magic and immortality would leap forward by decades.” 

“I didn’t realise I was in the presence of such an eminent sorcerer,” Jaskier says straight-faced. Tymon doesn’t pick up on the sarcasm but his heart jolts anyway, and he clicks his fingers, sending the ball of light back to press against Jaskier’s forearm, holding it till Jaskier is shaking in his bonds before letting it go. Geralt stands there, one hand outstretched, desperate. 

“Ban Ard rejected me,” Tymon says, maudlin and peevish while in front of him Jaskier tries and fails and tries again to breathe. “Said I didn’t have enough power. My whole life I’ve been hoarding, every scrap of knowledge, every magical item, and once I have a witcher, I’ll show them. I’ll bring their stupid little exclusive club to the ground.” 

“A – a worthwhile goal,” Jaskier agrees, his voice gone high and fast. “I promise, if I could help you I would. I promise. But I can’t, I’m sorry, I just can’t. I woke up, and there was no one else but me.” 

“Where would he go? Why would he leave you?” Tymon insists. The light shrinks again, hovering in front of Jaskier’s face; the bard’s eyes cross as they stare transfixed at it. 

“I don’t know. Back to town, maybe, but I don’t know why he would. I don’t know!” 

“You’re hiding something,” Tymon says. He gestures and the light floats in front of Jaskier’s right eye. “Perhaps you’ll take me seriously if I blind you.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, blinking and swallowing, “oh please, please don’t—”

And Geralt whirls round, roars his frustration and his pain and his anger out into the world. 

At the end of the room, jars and pots and jugs slide from one of the shelves and shatter a stream of noise and shards on to the ground.

It’s loud, but Jaskier is louder. “Oh no,” he cries, “it’s the ghost, it must be, don’t leave me here with it!” 

Almost simultaneously, Geralt and Tymon say, “what?” 

“We saw it when we first came in!” Jaskier says, his face screwed up in terror. “It fled from Geralt’s blade, but it’s come back! You can’t trap me with it!” 

For the first time, Tymon seems uncertain. Maybe even a little afraid. “Rumours,” he says. “The fears of the ignorant.” 

“It’s real!” Jaskier sobs, the clever, brilliant idiot. Geralt could kiss him. “Blind me, burn me, do whatever you want, but please don’t let it get me!” 

Geralt summons every ounce of his grief and fury and hurls it at the trapdoor, which slams shut. Tymon shrieks and the magelight dims, almost vanishes. He reignites it with a shaking hand and steps backwards towards the stairs, halfway up them before he even speaks. 

“I’ll try the town,” he says, voice unsteady. “If I don’t find him there, I’ll be back, don’t think I won’t.” He pushes the trapdoor open, climbs through and closes it behind him. 

Darkness falls. There’s just enough light coming from the world above for Geralt to see Jaskier slump into the chair. Jaskier won’t be able to see anything. He says, “Geralt, if you’re out there, I could _really_ do with some help.” 

“I’m here,” Geralt tells him. He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms. “I’ll find a way to help. Somehow.” 

“Ah, fuck,” Jaskier says into the silence. “I guess it’s just you and me, ghost.” He sounds exhausted. He twitches as the adrenaline fades, closing his eyes with a sigh. 

“You should rest,” Geralt says, listening as Jaskier’s breath evens out. “I’ll – I’ll stand guard.” 

The day creeps away into night. Jaskier sleeps, head tilted back, snuffling and occasionally shaking. Once the sun sets, Geralt can’t see him anymore; the cellar is pitch black. He moves to kneel closer so he can at least listen to him breathe. 

It would be sensible to meditate, to get his strength up in the hope that he’ll find a way to use it. But all he can contemplate are worst-case scenarios. That Tymon will come back and kill Jaskier next time. That Tymon won’t come back, and Geralt will watch Jaskier die alone and scared. That Geralt will be condemned to wandering this house for an eternity while the body of his best friend decays in the basement… 

No. Enough. 

The morbid thoughts are interrupted when Jaskier shifts in his chair and whispers, “Geralt?”

Geralt shuffles closer. “Yes?” he says, just in case. 

“Are you there? Geralt? I don’t…” Jaskier swallows, the sound faintly rasping. “If you’re there, please say something, it’s so dark, I can’t see you.” His voice is thin, wandering. 

“I know,” Geralt says. “I’m sorry.” He rests his head in his hands, despairing. He’ll sit this vigil. He owes it to Jaskier. No matter how much it hurts. 

Jaskier doesn’t speak again, but after a while his body starts to shake with soft muffled sobs. Geralt can’t bear it. He reaches out, catches the edge of the dimeritium pinning Jaskier’s legs to the chair, cold and hard beneath his fingers. 

_Wait_. Cold. It feels cold. Not inert, not like nothing, not like a glass barrier between him and it. He can feel it. 

Dimeritium negates magic, Geralt thinks, hope swelling painfully in his chest like the sunrise. How many more ways can he be a fucking idiot before this day is done? He moves swiftly, kneeling as close as he can get, one hand clasping the shackle over Jaskier’s wrist tightly, the other touching his fingers. “Jaskier. Jaskier, I’m here.” 

The silence drags, and Geralt’s heart sinks with it, and then Jaskier’s hand slowly, slowly, twists in his grasp and he finds his fingers crushed in a desperate grip. Warmth races through his whole body. He’s never felt anything like it before, this one touch that is the only real thing in the world. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, almost choking on a sob.

“It’s me,” Geralt promises, all the other words he wants to say caught in his throat. 

“You left,” Jaskier gasps. His fingers are shaking a little. They’re so warm. Too warm, Geralt slowly realises. He shifts to stand, still careful to keep hold of both the dimeritium and Jaskier’s hand, then slowly uncouples his fingers to touch the bard’s forehead, his cheek. Jaskier’s skin is clammy with sweat, and burning beneath the moisture. 

“You have a fever,” Geralt says, slowly. Of course he does. No water, at least two untreated burns. No wonder infection’s starting to set in. Not to mention the concussion. 

“Do I?” Jaskier asks. He sounds so lost. “Where are we? Did we find the ghost?” 

_I’m the ghost_ , Geralt almost says, but he doesn’t want to confuse Jaskier further. “No such thing as ghosts,” he says instead, stroking Jaskier’s cheek lightly. The bard sighs and turns his head into the touch, letting out a satisfied murmur. 

“Can we go then?” he asks. “If there aren’t any ghosts? I’m kind of tired.” 

Geralt moves his hands to the shackles, and then he pauses. He thinks. Even if he could get them off – which is by no means guaranteed, as dimeritium saps his strength too – it’s the middle of the night. Jaskier is already feverish. The minute Geralt stops touching the dimeritium he’s back to being invisible, helpless. Could he break off a piece to carry with him? Would that be enough to negate the spell tying him to the building? If not, Jaskier could wander out of the house and Geralt wouldn’t be able to follow him. He could walk straight back into Tymon’s clutches. He could be attacked in the woods. And Geralt would never know. 

“We can’t yet,” Geralt says, pressing his forehead against Jaskier’s, feeling the heat rising from his skin. “We need to stay till Tymon gets back. We need to bring him down here so I can kill him.” He says it mainly out of anger, but then he figures – it’s Tymon’s spell trapping him here. Most magic dies with the caster. It’s the smartest thing to do, to wait for him to come back before they break free. 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, accepting. Geralt feels his skin wrinkle as he frowns. “In that case, would you be so kind as to fetch me some water? I’m quite parched…” 

Geralt pries at the buckle, aiming to snap some off to keep him solid while he goes upstairs. But he doesn’t make a dent in it. “I can’t,” he says. “I’m sorry.” 

“Please?” 

Ah, fuck. Geralt clasps both Jaskier’s hands in his, stretching one index finger to keep the connection with the metal. “I know you’re hurting,” he says. “I know you’re confused. But I have a plan, all right? We wait for Tymon, and you tell him you’ve seen me, and when he comes down here I can get us both out. But until then you have to be patient.” 

Jaskier laughs threadily. “Not really my thing, darling,” he says. Then, “Geralt? I could really do with some water.” 

“I know,” Geralt says, closing his eyes. “The minute I can. I promise.” He strokes his thumb into Jaskier’s palm and the bard hums. 

“That’s nice,” he says. “Holding hands. Not like you.” 

Geralt folds back down to kneeling, rests his head on Jaskier’s thigh, feels the solid warmth of him beneath his cheek. 

“I missed you,” Jaskier carries on. “You left…” 

“I was here,” Geralt says, because it’s very important Jaskier knows that. “You just couldn’t see me.” 

“You picked a terrible time to play hide and seek,” Jaskier says, his voice slurred again; he’s falling away again, back into sleep. It feels dangerous, and Geralt tightens his grip. 

“Stay with me,” he says. 

“Mmmm,” Jaskier agrees, yawning. There’s a pause while he shifts, sighs, stills again. “Geralt, can we leave now? Please?”

“Soon,” Geralt says. “When Tymon arrives.” 

“It’s just I really don’t want to be here,” Jaskier says, very quietly. 

“I know,” Geralt says, feeling just as helpless as he was before, in the face of Jasier’s confusion, his pain. “I know.” 

The night wears on. Jaskier sleeps, though his slumber is not restful, full of twitches and murmurs. Geralt keeps hold of his hands, hoping that his presence is somehow soothing. How strange it is to think of someone being comforted by a witcher. In this, as in all things, Jaskier is an oddity. Really Geralt should have found a way to ditch him years ago. It’s not safe. 

But Jaskier’s calloused fingers are warm and solid in Geralt’s grasp, and he’s fairly sure it’s far too late to think of letting go. 

The dawn is heralded by a flurry of birdsong and eventually some relief from the gloom in the cellar as a few shafts of light shine through the trapdoor. Jaskier rouses with a hiss of pain as he lifts his head. His eyes are glassy and dull. “Geralt,” he says, “you’re here.” Then he frowns. “You look terrible.” 

“Takes one to know one,” Geralt says, but Jaskier just wrinkles his brow further. “Jaskier, do you remember what happened yesterday?”

“You left,” Jaskier says, sulkily, a little sad. 

“Not – well – yes, fine, I left. Then I came back. And now we have to trap Tymon, all right? We’re going to wait till he arrives, and you’re going to shout that you’ve seen me so he comes down here, all right?” 

“You _left_ ,” Jaskier says, brokenhearted. “Gods, maybe you’re not here now. Maybe this is just a dream or something, I’m sitting in the dark and hearing voices and dreaming…” 

“I’m here,” Geralt promises. He squeezes Jaskier’s hands. “Feel that? It’s real.” 

“The human mind is a marvellous thing,” Jaskier says, vacantly. There’s no way Geralt can trust him to play along when Tymon comes, but they’ll make it work somehow. They have to. He looks at Jaskier’s flushed cheeks, his faraway eyes. And if Tymon doesn’t come in a few hours he’ll find a way to get Jaskier out of the house. Even if it means never seeing him again, he won’t trap the bard here with him. 

As they wait, Jaskier hums, sings snatches of songs, lost somewhere in his mind as his fever rises. Geralt traces circles in Jaskier’s palms with his thumbs, hoping the touch provides an anchor for Jaskier the same way it feels like an anchor for him: a single point of reality amidst madness. 

Just as Geralt is starting to lose hope, he hears the faint sound of footsteps, the beat of a heart drawing near. “Jaskier,” he says urgently. “Are you with me? Tymon’s back. You need to tell him I’ve been here.” 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, and beams. “How lovely to see you. What brings you to this place? Wouldn’t have thought it was your kind of thing.” 

Well, fuck. Wherever Jaskier has gone in his wanderings, it’s not anywhere remotely close to their actual situation. 

Tymon’s steps stop by the trapdoor. “Bard?” he shouts suspiciously. “Is that you?” 

“I really think you should evict that troublesome guest,” Jaskier whispers. 

Fuck, and Geralt can’t speak. If he speaks Tymon will hear, and be forewarned; he managed to create the spell in the emerald, who knows what else he’s got up his sleeve. 

Above them, Tymon sighs. “Hallucinating,” he mutters to himself. “What a waste of time.” Geralt hears him turn away. 

He can’t leave. He mustn’t. Geralt taps Jaskier on the cheek, waits till Jaskier’s eyes are broadly focussed on him, and then lifts his hand from the dimeritium. 

Jaskier _wails_. “Geralt, no, come back! Geralt!” He thrashes in the chair, desperately trying to move. Geralt steps away from him, circles to the side of the chair, hating himself. 

Then he hears the trapdoor being slowly raised. Tymon treads down the stairs. “Quit your caterwauling,” he says crossly when he reaches the bottom. “There’s no one here.” 

“He was!” Jaskier says. “He was, he was!” 

“The spell did say he was in the house,” Tymon says thoughtfully. Geralt grits his teeth and brushes his hand against the shackle over Jaskier’s wrist, down and up and down and up, flashing in and out of sight. 

“Oh,” Tymon says, fascinated, and in that moment Geralt knows he’s got him. The man almost races to Jaskier’s side, words falling out of his mouth in an unbroken stream. “Was that what you saw – perhaps a side effect of the binding – tell me everything – was he speaking to you or caught in a repetitive act – perhaps he was the ghost yesterday – a projection—” 

He’s in reach. Geralt presses one hand flat against the shackle and uses the other to thrust his dagger deep into Tymon’s eye. He’s still speaking, mouth open as he dies. 

“Now _you’re_ the ghost,” Geralt says with deep satisfaction as he pulls the dagger back to let Tymon fall. He crouches over the body, feels cloth and flesh beneath his hands. He’s back. He’s real again. He finds the keys to the chair’s bindings and turns to free Jaskier, who’s staring at him, wild-eyed. 

“You vanished!” he says in a highly accusatory tone. 

“It wasn’t my fault,” Geralt says, and kicks at Tymon, rolling him over so Jaskier doesn’t have to see the bloody mess of his eye. “I’m back now.” He works at the shackles at Jaskier’s wrists. The minute they’re undone Jaskier crosses his arms, wincing slightly, but clearly the pain is overwhelmed by righteous indignation. 

“Geralt, was I bait?” he demands. “We’ve talked about this! I have rights!”

Geralt ignores him in favour of loosing the other two metal straps holding him to the chair. “Can you walk?” he asks. 

“Of course I can bloody walk!” Jaskier shouts at him, stands up, and falls over. Geralt manages to catch him before he hits his head on the floor again, not that it would have made much difference: he’s already sunk deep into unconsciousness, his body burning and his breath rattling in his throat. He needs water, a healer, a bed; but most of all, Geralt thinks, he needs to be out of this hellhole. 

Geralt picks him up and slings him over his shoulder, moving up the stairs then out of the front door, heaving a great sigh of relief when nothing prevents his passage. Outside, the sun is bright on his face, the grass springy beneath his feet. Jaskier is a warm weight on Geralt’s back, his clothes soft under Geralt’s fingers. The world surrounds him, touches him, and Geralt breathes it in and starts walking. 

When they reach the inn, the owner scowls to see them, muttering about late payment, the cost of the horse’s feed. Geralt, out of patience, thrusts the emerald he took from Tymon’s corpse into the man’s hand. “Take that. Fetch me water and a healer.” 

“Oh my. Yes. Yes, sir! Right away, sir!” he babbles, avarice sweating from every pore, and Geralt bares his teeth and leaves him staring at the treasure. 

Their room, thankfully, is undisturbed. He supposes it’s only been a night. It feels much longer. 

When Geralt lays him on the bed, Jaskier is still far under. He’s also filthy, in the kind of state he’d complain about incessantly if he were aware of it. Geralt strips him out of clothes stained with blood, plaster and dust – he suspects they’re past saving, but he’ll let Jaskier decide, later. Soon enough the serving girl appears with water and cloth, and Geralt wipes the grime from Jaskier’s skin, avoiding the area around the burns, and does his best to get the blood out of Jaskier’s hair. There’s a swollen knot at the back of his skull but no give to the bone, and besides, if his brain was hurt he’d likely be dead by now. 

The healer arrives not long after with a gleam in her eye that suggests the innkeeper has told her Geralt’s rich. The burns are hidden beneath angry blisters, the skin around them red and raised. She warns him not to burst them, then goes away for an hour or so, reappearing with poultices for the infection. Geralt sniffs at the wounds before covering them up, and decides they could be worse; there’s no smell of rot. The two of them were lucky; they almost escaped untouched. 

He should wash, or sleep, or eat. He should see if he can get Jaskier to drink some water. 

Instead he allows himself the indulgence of five minutes simply sitting, one hand on Jaskier’s chest so he can feel it rise and fall. 

When Jaskier wakes, he does so dramatically, sitting bolt upright with a choked-off gasp. “Geralt!” he says. 

Geralt, who was meditating next to the bed, snaps back into awareness. “I’m here,” he says, something in him sickened by the words. When it would have made a difference, he wasn’t there for Jaskier at all. “It’s all right, it’s over.” 

Jaskier just stares at him, blue eyes wide and frightened. “Where did you go?” he asks, starting to tremble. He reaches out his hands to Geralt, and Geralt, unthinking, takes them, moving to sit on the bed at Jaskier’s side. The bard rolls over to lean on his chest, pulling Geralt’s arms up around himself and clinging on to his forearm. He’s still hot to the touch, but a little better, Geralt thinks. 

“There was a spell,” Geralt tells him. “I was there all the time, but caught out of the world somehow.” 

Jaskier nods, but Geralt can see he’s not taking it in, not really. “Don’t leave me,” he pleads. “Don’t go.” 

“I won’t,” Geralt promises, moving one hand up carefully to stroke through the sweat-damp curls at the back of Jaskier’s neck. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you before.” 

“It was so dark,” Jaskier says, clinging to Geralt like a drowning man might to a rock, body tense and trembling. “I thought I was going to die in there and you’d never know. I thought you might have been dead already and I’d never know…” 

“I wouldn’t have left you,” Geralt says, though he doesn’t know whether it’s getting through. 

“Don’t let go,” Jaskier says, fingers gripping Geralt’s flesh hard enough to bruise. “Stay with me.” 

“Yes,” Geralt says, the world shrinking to this, the circle of his arms, skin against skin, holding Jaskier as he cries. 

It takes more than a day for Jaskier to come back to himself fully, a day of bad dreams and fever and tears. The only thing that seems to calm him is Geralt’s touch, and every time Geralt feels Jaskier relax against him a strange sensation rises through him: pleasure and anxiety and pride and bewilderment. To have this trust, when he has done so little to deserve it. This warmth, this friendship. He came so close to losing it. He’s always held the world at a distance and now he knows where that leads, he likes the idea of it less. 

On the morning of the second day, he wakes slowly, aware that something is wrong but unsure what. He’s lying on his side, one arm draped over Jaskier’s chest, one bent leg resting on top of Jaskier’s thigh. And underneath him Jaskier is holding himself stiff and still. 

Geralt rolls away and Jaskier moves, almost lurching from the bed. “Fuck I’m thirsty,” he says, reaching for the mug of water on the table by the bed. “And I smell disgusting.” He sniffs at his armpits and makes a face, then reaches for the poultice under the bandage on his arm. 

“Leave it alone,” Geralt says and Jaskier pouts. “They’re healing fine as long as you let them be.” He feels like he should say something else, but he’s not sure what; and as Jaskier scrubs a hand through his hair and sighs, he also feels off-kilter, like the world has shifted in some strange indefinable way. 

Jaskier finds a loose shirt in his pack and pulls it over his head, wincing faintly. “Well,” he says, “that was quite the adventure, I suppose. I’ll be less excited at the prospect of a haunted house next time. I rather feel like I would like to get the fuck out of this town, what do you say?”

There’s a faint sheen in Jaskier’s eyes, like he could cry but won’t. Geralt says, hesitantly, “are you well enough to travel?”

“I’m fine, Geralt, truly.” He opens his arms wide, as if about to sweep into a bow. “All better!” His smile stretches across his cheeks but there’s something hollow in it. 

No one seems to have noticed or cared that Tymon’s gone missing, so far, but it’s probably still for the best if they leave sooner rather than later. So Geralt nods, and Jaskier beams. But it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

The path waits for them, and they walk it as normal; camping out some nights, stopping at inns on others. Jaskier composes a strange melancholy song about a spurned lover who haunts the object of his affections, unaware that he’s a ghost; Geralt rids a lake of drowners and kills a bruxa, with only a few claw marks for his trouble. Jaskier stitches him up, tutting, and as his dexterous fingers manipulate needle and thread, Geralt realises what has been itching at him ever since they left the town. 

Jaskier is keeping himself a careful, safe distance away from Geralt. He doesn’t slap at his arm when he’s amused, or dig him in the side, or casually grab his hand when he wants to show him something. There’s no hand brushing past his shoulder or an offer to wash his hair or even the press of his body as they sit side by side next to a campfire. This entirely impersonal wound tending is the first time Jaskier’s touched him in _weeks_ , and Geralt’s skin is burning at the contact. 

Once he notices, he keeps noticing; and the absence becomes painful. It’s too reminiscent of the haunted house, the feeling that there’s a glass barrier between him and the world. He doesn’t understand why it’s happening. He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. And all the time Jaskier smiles, and sings, and walks and sleeps beside him, and the air between them feels solid and heavy. 

They’re walking through the woods, a slow meander, in no particular rush to get anywhere. Jaskier is telling one of his interminable court stories, full of people Geralt’s never met, whose interactions with each other are complicated enough that Jaskier keeps having to stop and go back to explain the context – not that Geralt cares, but he’s enjoying the sound of Jaskier’s voice and not bothering to follow the detail. 

But Jaskier is caught up enough that he isn’t really paying attention, and one of his wilder gestures catches Geralt’s wrist, making him flinch and fall back. The story dies mid-sentence. And Geralt can’t keep pretending. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“What’s – why, nothing, why would anything be wrong – ” Jaskier says, but his face is pale and his heart races. “Are you quite well? You seem to be imagining some great crisis, you know how you get sometimes—” He’s almost edging away, like Geralt is diseased or disgusting, and it’s not fair, it’s just – not fair. 

“You don’t touch me anymore!” Geralt bursts out. 

Jaskier stills. He has the wide-eyed panic of an animal caught in a snare. He swallows. “I didn’t think you’d notice.” 

Geralt doesn’t answer. He wants Jaskier to explain, he wants to understand, but he’s not going to demand it of him. 

“Oh my dear,” Jaskier says, stricken; Geralt’s not entirely sure what he sees in Geralt’s face but it must be bad. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, I thought you’d be glad.” 

They’re standing in the middle of the road, and he’s got Roach’s reins in his hand; it’s an absurd place to have this discussion, but this seems to be where they’re doing it. 

“You thought I’d be glad,” Geralt repeats dumbly. 

“You don’t touch people!” Jaskier says. “And I respect that, of course I do; I didn’t think you minded me doing it but then, in the cellar, and after, I didn’t mean—” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, slowly, a thin thread of desperation weaving into his voice, “would you please tell me what the fuck you’re talking about?” 

“ ‘Oh, Geralt, hold me, stay with me, don’t leave me’,” Jaskier spits out, high and mocking. “I was all over you, I couldn’t bear for you to let me go, even for a minute, no matter how you must have hated it. And you stayed, of course you did, you’re a good man. But once I was in my senses…” He flushes, shame rising red in his cheeks. “It wasn’t fair of me to ask it of you; the least I could do was give you some space.” 

There’s a ringing in Geralt’s ears. The world vibrates, faintly unreal. He moves towards Jaskier, cups his cheeks in his hands, presses their foreheads together. “No,” he says. 

“No?” Jaskier says, uncertain and questioning. His breath is a gentle breeze on Geralt’s lips. 

“During the spell,” Geralt says, halting. “I couldn’t feel anything. I wasn’t real. But when I touched you…” His skin is burning everywhere it’s touching Jaskier, a solid flame. “You made me real.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier murmurs. He blinks, his eyelashes featherlight against Geralt’s face. “It’s not that you don’t want to be touched. But you’re not used to it…”

“It’s so much,” Geralt says. “You’re too much. I want it.” 

“My darling,” Jaskier says. His fingers catch Geralt’s and pull them away; they stand facing each other, and Jaskier brings their joined hands up to Geralt’s lips. Geralt kisses them, the knuckles, the palms, his and Jaskier’s all muddled together. He’s whining, a low, keening sound as the touch grounds him, makes him whole. 

Jaskier laughs, heady and breathless. “Oh my love,” he says, and edges in for a proper kiss, tongue shockingly hot in Geralt’s mouth. He leans against Geralt, pressing in as close as he can get. “You shall have it. Whatever you want. All of me.” 

Geralt’s arms come up around him, clinging and needy, and they rock together; and he’s there, Jaskier’s there, they’re touching, they’re real. 

They walk, wordless, next to each other, the air charged between them. Jaskier’s little finger strokes against the strip of skin at Geralt’s wrist. Geralt’s hip slides against the silk of Jaskier’s breeches. It’s only a few hours to the next village and all the way the memory of Jaskier’s lips on his is alive in his body. 

They part ways, also wordlessly, when they reach the tavern. Geralt stables Roach, sees to the tack and baggage. When he goes inside, Jaskier is hovering in the corridor, key in one hand. Geralt follows him up the stairs, without a thought, without a care, his mind at rest. 

The room is bare of luxury, but it has a bed, piled high with wool blankets which Jaskier sweeps to one side to uncover the plain linen sheets beneath. He always does that; he knows Geralt runs hot and finds the material rough and heavy… He _knows_ him. 

Jaskier turns, nerves evident in the jitter of his movement, and Geralt goes to him, bends his head to mouth at Jaskier’s neck where his blood thrums. The bard sighs, his arms coming up round Geralt’s back, and for a moment they rock there, suspended. 

“I want to see you,” Geralt mutters and feels Jaskier’s Adam’s apple bob against his cheek. They uncouple, Jaskier’s hands fumbling at ties and boots and buttons until he stands exposed. Geralt’s seen him naked before, of course he has, in glimpses and baths and rivers, but not like this. Not waiting for Geralt to look at. His lean and muscled legs, the curls of hair on his chest, his cock filling between his thighs. 

Beautiful, he thinks, and then realises he can say it so he says it. Jaskier flushes. “Your turn, I think?” he says, and Geralt removes his sword harness, his boots, the top layer of his armour and then stops. He’s too scarred, and though he knows Jaskier’s seen it all, though he’s not shy, it’s different somehow. He doesn’t want to be on display, bare to the touch. Jaskier must sense his hesitation because he says, “this is fine, dearest. I love all of you but I can wait, this is fine.” 

Geralt kisses him, moving him smoothly to the bed and then tipping him onto it on his back. Jaskier sprawls, hip cocked, showing off a little, and Geralt growls and climbs on top of him, kneeling with legs either side of Jaskier’s thighs. He leans down to kiss him again, his fingers circling Jaskier’s nipples, teasing while the bard arches under him. 

He takes his time getting to know Jaskier’s body, fingers and lips tracing every inch of him, and when he’s done only Jaskier’s cock is untouched, standing hard and red, its tip brushing against Geralt’s stomach. He licks his finger and traces a line from base to top and Jaskier shudders. “Oh, you’re good at this,” he gasps, a little surprised, and Geralt flicks at a nipple in mock outrage. His job depends on a keen grasp of detail; he _studies_. There are whorehouses all over the Continent happy for a return visit, and if Geralt gets to linger a little longer off the back of his skills, gets to be held close, well, that’s just an added bonus. 

He shakes his head at his own idiocy, his hair brushing against Jaskier’s collarbone and Jaskier arches and chants, “fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt agrees, and Jaskier giggles, eyes glazed with pleasure, nothing like that awful vacant expression they held back at the house, when Geralt thought he might lose him. 

He pushes the memory away and goes to find oil in his pack, something non-toxic. When he looks back, Jaskier has propped himself up on his elbows, his body a long line of promise. “I’m cold,” he complains. “Come back.” 

Geralt pulls him into a hug, feels Jaskier rigid against his belly, and then grabs him by the hips and flips him on to his stomach. “Oh, darling,” Jaskier says, breathless. “What’re you going to do to me? Make me feel good? Touch me everywhere? Anything you want, love, anything.” 

Geralt wants too much, it’s all too much; he bends his head to Jaskier’s back and lets the moment pass. Jaskier arranges himself, head turned to the side and pillowed on his arm, backside lifted. Geralt can see one of his eyes, blue swallowed by the black of his pupil, intense, trusting. “Stay with me,” he says. 

“I’m here,” Geralt promises, and presses a thumb to Jaskier’s hole, circling gently to make him twitch. He follows it with his tongue and Jaskier bites at his wrist to muffle the shout. 

“More,” he begs, “more more more. _All of it_.” 

“It’s coming,” Geralt tells him, and slicks his finger up to press in. He takes it slowly, gentle in this as he cannot be in anything else, one hand soothing up and down Jaskier’s spine while the other works him open. Jaskier babbles, a stream of _yeses_ and _pleases_ and _love yous_ and _so goods_ but Geralt lets it wash over him, focussing instead on the warmth of Jaskier’s body, the tight heat clenching round one finger, then two, then three. He draws it out as long as he can, taking the time to explore and to move and to touch him deep, inside and out, while Jaskier pleads in tumbling strings of nonsense. 

When it’s time, he rolls Jaskier onto his side, the bard going with him easily, boneless with pleasure. Geralt drags his trousers and underclothes down to his knees, freeing himself, then lines up behind him and pushes in. Jaskier’s whole body shakes into Geralt’s as they join together. Jaskier’s head is a warm weight on Geralt’s right arm; with his left he holds the bard close, reaching his fingers to circle the tip of his cock in a featherlight grip. “Oh,” Jaskier says, “oh oh oh,” and Geralt rocks gently in and out of him. 

He loses time and thought and everything but warmth and skin and joy. Jaskier keens, a low whine; all his words have fled. Geralt never speeds up, never builds to a climax, he just rolls his hips, one little movement followed by another, but all of them drifting into a continuous stream of delight. So that when he comes it’s not a climax but a fall, a slide into a deeper sensation than any he has ever known. 

Jaskier follows with a few firm strokes of Geralt’s fingers, sighing his release. Geralt rubs Jaskier’s spend into his chest. The bed is sticky and cooling beneath them, come and oil starting to leak from Jaskier as Geralt softens, but Geralt only presses his forehead into Jaskier’s hair and does not move, does not pull out or away. 

“Stay with me,” Jaskier murmurs again, and Geralt doesn’t have to see his face to know that he’s smiling. 

“Always,” Geralt tells him, and they rest as they are, coupled and close.


End file.
